


FIC: Of a Sunday Morning

by jagnikjen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagnikjen/pseuds/jagnikjen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the way, he’d fallen for his flat mate. It wasn’t love or anything really sappy, but John suddenly found himself fancying another man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FIC: Of a Sunday Morning

**The First Sunday in June**

Sherlock ambled into the sitting room, scratching the back of his head and stomach simultaneously. He stretched, revealing the pale flesh of his stomach and the sprinkling of hair that peeked just above the waistband of his favorite pajama bottoms.

John’s mug stopped halfway to his lips.

His mouth went dry and his mind went blank. The image of a starkers Sherlock flooded his brain even as color flooded his face. He yanked his gaze from Sherlock’s now cotton-covered abdomen and studied his tea.

 

**The Second Sunday in June**

The shower stopped and John turned off the kettle and dropped bread into the toaster. The latest case had been done and dusted, and he’d written it up on the blog last evening. Sherlock ought to be ready to eat.

Bare feet padded into the kitchen. “We’ve been invited to Lestrade’s for rugby on the telly.”

John turned and his stomach swooped.

Sherlock scrubbed his wet hair with one towel while a second hung on his narrow waist, its dark color in startling and delicious contrast to the pale flesh of his stomach. The loose knot keeping his bits covered rode low and a sprinkling of dark hair was visible. He swallowed. Bleedin’ hell if he didn’t want to see exactly what Sherlock, in all his male glory, looked like.

Not going to happen.

Sherlock was rarely affected by sexual overtures and John wasn’t quite ready to go there.

A flash of color brought him back to the here and now, and John met Sherlock’s gaze.

At the narrowing of Sherlock’s eyes, John snapped his mouth shut and nodded. Dammit. “Rugby you say?” he croaked.

Sherlock’s lips pursed almost imperceptibly and he offered a single nod.

“Yeah, all right.” Anything to distract him from the turn his thoughts had taken.

 

**The Third Sunday in June**

John blinked against the stream of light coming through the split of the hastily closed draperies and took a deep breath.

Sunday again. A day he’d come to both anticipate and dread in equal measure and for the same reason.

It was the one day Sherlock relaxed. As much as the man could at any rate. If he had a case, his relaxation efforts lasted an hour. Which, thankfully, was more often than not. If there was no case, then John suffered for hours on end.

He slid from bed, pulled a pair of lounge shorts over his pants, and made his way to the kitchen.

The vision of Sherlock sitting at his desk in only his pajama bottoms pulled a groan from John. Sherlock had taken to sleeping sans shirt since the heat wave hit London several weeks ago.

After his stint in the Middle East, John tolerated the heat much better and the cold a bit worse. “Morning,” he called, his voice a bit gruff. He could and would blame it on sleep.

“Yes, it is,” said Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson brought coffee.”

“Brilliant.”

The muscles of Sherlock’s back flexed as he reached for a book.

John swallowed. First one summer and then two in Sherlock’s not-fully-clothed presence and John had found himself quite interested in the male body—a specific male body—and not in a medical way.

Sherlock’s baritone startled him. “You’re staring. Why?”

John looked back at the sink full of dishes. “Sorry. Just thinking.” He washed the large red mug and poured himself some coffee. “You want some?”

“Tea, please. Do you mind.”

Not even a question really. “Of course.” And why would he mind? Anything to divert his attention from the bare expanse of shoulders that tapered to the thin waist and narrow band of his pants peeking from above the plaid sleepwear.

John flipped on the kettle and popped open cupboard after cupboard. He really needed to pay someone to go round to the shops once a week or something. You’d think he’d have done after all this time. Aha. A package of biscuits. Good enough.

He set the small tray with Sherlock’s favorite mug and a plate of biscuits on the table.

“Ta.”

John plopped into his armchair and blew across the surface of his coffee, Sherlock’s bare back in view.

The pale flesh would be smooth to the touch. No scars that John had noticed, but a few moles and beauty marks. And his hair, at least the stuff on his head, always looked so soft. Would it feel the same?

John rubbed his fingers against the nylon of his shorts.

“What is so fascinating about my back?” Sherlock asked with a slight edge to his voice, twisting about to glare at John. His gaze dropped to John’s lap and then snapped back to John’s, his eyes going molten.

“Am I—” He cleared his throat. “Am I the object of your lust or just the recipient of its effect?”

John went perfectly still. He hadn’t realized he sported an erection, but the physiological reality of it had hit him as soon as Sherlock had begun speaking.

“I, um, yes.” What the hell? He was tired of masking his feelings. Somewhere along the way, he’d fallen for Sherlock. It wasn’t love or anything really sappy like that, but John suddenly found himself fancying another man. Sherlock wasn’t the first, although the last time, his feelings hadn’t reached this level of intensity. Of course, he hadn’t lived with the bloke either.

To John’s relief, Sherlock didn’t run screaming from the room.

“I’ve only had a couple of intimate relationships.” High spots of color tainted Sherlock’s cheekbones. Whether from embarrassment or shame or something else entirely, John wasn’t sure, but he opted to ignore it.

“With men.”

A single jerky nod was Sherlock’s response.

“Well, I’ve never had one with a man, so I hope you don’t mind if we take things slow.”

The stiffness left Sherlock’s carriage and the sharp edges of his face eased. “I— No— That’s no problem, John. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“All right. Well, good.” He nodded.

 

**The Fourth Sunday in June**

John put the kettle on and tidied up what he could of the kitchen. Debris from at least five different experiments littered both the tables and part of one work top. They’d be eating in the sitting room again. 

He glanced at the clock—half past nine. Unusual for Sherlock to sleep so late. Unless, of course, he’d been wandering the streets of London till the wee hours. 

John cocked his head and listened.

Or if he’d never gone to bed.

The groan/squeak of the stairs sounded with Sherlock’s easy gait until he appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Mmmorning,” he said, his tone clearly indicating a good mood. Reaching into his jacket pockets, he pulled out and dropped onto the table two handfuls of small press-and-seal sample baggies full of dirt. He looked pleased despite the dirt under his nails and around the nail beds. There was a smudge of soil on his shirt, as well as on one cheek, and the knees of his trousers were damp.

“More experiments?” John asked.

“No. Data samples.”

“What for?”

“For the _data_ , John,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, but his voice remained agreeable.

John smiled. “Yeah, all right then. Why don’t you have a wash while I make some breakfast? What do you fancy?”

His eyebrows quirked and he opened his mouth for a long moment before turning toward the hall.

“A quick fry up would be good,” he called from his bedroom right before the door closed with a soft thump.

John shook his head. The man was an enigma.

The only thing in the fridge worth frying up were bangers and eggs. John arranged the links in the skillet and listened as the bath water came on and Sherlock ostensibly stepped under the shower spray. Naked. He studied the sausages and blinked. He blew out a breath and murmured, “Bloody hell.” His prick shifted in his pants.

He ignored his growing erection as best he could and finished preparing the simple meal.

The door from the bathroom into Sherlock’s bedroom closed, and John’s heart rate spiked, though he had no idea why it should. It was just another Sunday morning in 221B Baker Street. Eggs, bangers, toast, and tea. And Sherlock being his usual irritating but oblivious self.

John carried plates into the sitting room and set them on the coffee table.

His arse hit the settee when Sherlock appeared with his hair wet and tousled and nothing on but his blue silk dressing gown. Perching precariously on barely-there hips, the sash was loosly tied and barely held the front together. The large vee of slightly muscled chest and flat abdomen sent any blood remaining anywhere in John’s body straight to his groin. Belly hair peeked from the bottom of the vee and John could tell by the drape of the silk that Sherlock wasn’t wearing any pants.

“Smells delicious, John, I’m famished.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

It wasn’t as if John hadn’t seen Sherlock in such a state before. He had, on any number of occasions these past eighteen months. Just not since…since… He swallowed. Or he tried. He snapped his jaw shut and tried again with a bit more success. For all the good it did him. Then he nodded. The jerky action in conjunction with whatever expression he wore apparently gave Sherlock the last clue he needed. A quick breath expanded his chest, and his eyes took on the state of an impending thunderstorm—turbulent and gray.

He took a seat next to John, the blue silk sliding apart to reveal well-toned thighs and calves. He was thin, to be sure, but not as scrawny as people liked to believe. Anyone who feared for the safety of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirts should realize.

“Shall we tuck in then?” his voice was low and rumbly and sent a shiver down John’s spine that settled right in his dick. Sherlock wasn’t referring to breakfast.

“Okay. Yeah. All right.” He took a breath to ease his nerves.

Soft lips pressed against his own and his lids slid shut. Except for the masculine scent that Sherlock wore and the solid feel of his form, this was kissing and kissing was something John knew all about. Apparently Sherlock knew a little something too. The gentle swipe of his tongue across John’s lips surprised him, but he parted them and by mutually instinctive actions and reactions, the kiss deepened.

John let his thoughts of being intimate with a man float away, because this was Sherlock and it just didn’t matter. Instead, he lost himself in the slide of Sherlock’s tongue against his own. The wet suction along his neck. The slightly rough texture of fingers along his arms, his face, and then his stomach, sides and back. Goose flesh prickled along his skin and he wanted to touch Sherlock too.

“Why don’t we just bring each other off then?” Sherlock suggested softly. “A nice slow start.”

Since when did Sherlock act solicitous?

Who cared?

“That’d be good. Fine. How?”

“Sit on the floor.”

John pushed the table out of the way and sat with his back against the sofa.

Sherlock slipped out of his dressing gown and settled his naked self in the crux of John’s flannel covered legs. He brought John’s arms around him and placed his hands on his thighs.

Okay, now what? Well, he knew what, but…where did one start on a man.

He’d never been one for diving right in with a woman. He liked to tease and tantalize and amp up the physical anticipation as well as the emotional. Always a better payoff. Surely a man’s sensibilities when it came to sex couldn’t be that different from a woman’s?

Unfortunately, with the height difference, he couldn’t see over Sherlock’s shoulder to the tableau below, so he closed his eyes, rested his cheek against the trapezius muscle, and felt his way.

The muscles of Sherlock’s leg bunched as John slid his fingers down and then back up, gliding slightly down to the generally more sensitive inner thigh. Heat and energy emanated from Sherlock’s tight sac and straining erection, but John resisted the urge to fondle, though he wanted to and badly.

Hips jerked at the slide of fingers over the hip bones and across the belly and around the turgid flesh. A hiss escaped at the drag of fingertips up the curve of front to side. An inhale at the rub and tweak of nipples.

Touch and sound without sight was rather sensual, though the sight of Sherlock aroused and erect was sure to be spectacular.

Sherlock’s skin was relatively smooth with only a smattering of body hair here and there and surprisingly few scars.

The rapid beating if Sherlock’s heart sounded beneath John’s ear and pleasure warmed him from the inside out.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Bloody hell, John,” he said, low and breathy.

Oh, God, he was making Sherlock sound like that. His dick hardened further, becoming almost painful pinned between him and Sherlock’s spine. He shifted to settle it along one side of Sherlock’s vertebrae.

“I’m not one of your lady friends.”

He took a breath to calm his own racing heart. “No, you’re not, but you mean a hell of a lot more to me, so I didn’t want this to be shallow and meaningless.”

“Sentiment,” he huffed. “I appreciate the thought, but just get on with it.”

John had to admit his restraint was just about at its breaking point and he wanted to touch Sherlock’s cock pretty fucking bad. Without further ado, he wrapped a hand around the throbbing length at Sherlock’s mid-section.

John’s name came from Sherlock’s mouth as more of a rumble than a word. He swallowed a giggle. He done it again—made the cool-as-a-cucumber Sherlock-bloody-Holmes react with desire.

With one hand splayed on Sherlock’s stomach, John stroked the distended flesh that grew with each caress. The foreskin retracted completely and enough pre-come had dribbled out to provide the lubrication necessary to allow pleasurable friction.

The speed of Sherlock’s breathing increased with each stroke and he thrust into John’s grip. Its speed and erratic rhythm, along with the weight and pliancy of Sherlock’s body against his own, had John’s body on fire. His scalp tingled and his body hummed in all the right places.

He picked up the pace, his own breathing accelerating, and he couldn’t help the thrust of his erection against Sherlock’s backside.

Sherlock’s hands gripped John’s pajama legs and his breathing shallowed out. His thrusts became more forceful and were accompanied by grunts. He was close.

John kicked up the velocity another notch and was rewarded by more sounds of pleasure from his… from Sherlock. They weren't really anything other than flatmates and friends yet.

John stroked and thrust, stroked and thrust, until Sherlock stiffened and groaned John’s name. A split second later, warm spurts of come coated his fingers and Sherlock’s belly.

Sherlock went languid against him and let out a long breath of satisfaction. His large hands and long fingers covered John’s. “Well done, John,” he said, soft and low, “quite pleasurable. I shan’t leave you in need much longer, but I find myself disinclined to leave the comfort of your embrace just yet. It’s been an age since I last felt so…cared for.”

John’s chest swelled with warm fuzzies and he placed another kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. It was the only part of him John could reach in this position. The sentiment—for that’s exactly what it was—meant the world to him. Definitely more than getting off.

He’d gladly sit here all day with Sherlock in his arms and a raging hard-on if it meant he’d hear more sentiment fall from Sherlock’s lips. Of course, the likelihood was very low, but it was Sunday and he had all day.

**~ Fin ~**

**Author's Note:**

> Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock is just too wonderful to not want to play and experiment with. Since the character himself is no longer copyrighted, I don't have to worry about that, but...I have to thank Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat for an utterly brilliant reincarnation and their blessings on or ignorance of all the things the fandom chooses to do with them.


End file.
